


it's good to let you in again

by theundiagnosable



Series: brooklyn nine-nine post-eps [1]
Category: Brooklyn Nine-Nine (TV)
Genre: F/M, post 2.17
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-02
Updated: 2015-03-02
Packaged: 2018-03-15 22:57:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,149
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3465134
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theundiagnosable/pseuds/theundiagnosable
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You do dance, later. (coda for 2.17)</p>
            </blockquote>





	it's good to let you in again

You do dance, later.

Like, a lot later, because by the time you manage to shake Gina’s great aunt and regain some of your dignity, half of the guests have left and Gina is nursing a bottle of champagne in a corner as the catering staff looks on despairingly-

But yeah. You dance.

“Hey, traitor.” You come up from behind Amy, and she jumps as you move to stand next to her, but her expression softens when she realizes that it’s you.

“Hey. Where’s your dance partner?”

“Right now? Wearing a dress she hates and pretending that she didn’t just eat an entire tray of mini sandwich things.” You offer a charming grin, and Amy elbows you good-naturedly.

“They’re called hors d’oeuvres,” she corrects, “and I don’t recall you asking.”

You give an exaggerated groan. “You’re really going to make me do this, aren’t you?”

Amy raises her eyebrows, waiting. (And you can see her trying not to smile.)

“Ugh, fine.” You roll your eyes, then give an exaggerated bow, extending your hand toward her and speaking like one of the dashing heroes in the movies that you’ll never admit to watching. “Amy Santiago, will you give me the honour of a dance?”

“Hm, let me think...” She tries to leave you in suspense, but then she giggles, actually giggles, and her eyes crinkle at the corners and it’s enough that you completely forget to make fun of her absolutely atrocious British accent (because really, it’s _that_ terrible). She takes your proffered hand and lets you lead her onto the dance floor.

You’re the only ones on the floor, and you only hesitate a second before putting your hands on her waist and moving in time to the music. For a few moments, it’s quiet, and you concentrate on the pressure of her hands on your shoulders. She bites her lip as if she’s concentrating, staring at her feet, and you’re ninety-eight percent sure that she’s mouthing the steps under her breath.

You don’t realize that you’re smiling until she looks up at you questioningly. “What?”

“Nothing.”

“What?” She insists, and you meet her eyes, smile growing wider.

“Remember when I asked you if I could teach you to dance?”

There’s something softer in her eyes when she nods. “Yeah. You said I looked like a mermaid. Why?”

“I didn’t think it was possible,” you say, low and sincere, “but... you’ve gotten so much worse.”

“You _ass_ ,” Amy hisses, digging her nails into your shoulder and laughing like she can’t help herself. “I have too improved.”

“You so haven’t,” you laugh along with her, “seriously, Ames, you’ve stepped on my feet, like, eight times in thirty seconds.”

And just like that, whatever tension was in the air has dissipated, and you’re back to being Jake and Amy, slow dancing to a fast song from Boyle’s weird playlist at what is possibly the strangest wedding in the history of ever.

“So,” you say conversationally, “French horn, huh?”

“Ugh,” Amy gives a long-suffering sigh, “I don’t know why I tell you anything.”

“’Cause I’m your partner and you’re-”

“Don’t say it.”

“-deeply in love with me.”

“I hate you.”

“You don’t.”

“I don’t,” she agrees, “most of the time.” You figure that’s the best you’re going to get, and, adjusting your grip on her waist, try to time your steps so that she steps on you as little as possible, rhythm be damned.

“Here-” You say, and, like she did what feels like a million years ago, count the steps, “one, two, three, one, two, three...” Eventually, you manage to figure out some sort of pattern, and Amy looks up, proud of herself.

“See, I did...” She breaks off, realizing at the same moment as you just how close your faces are (you can see where her lipstick is rubbing off at the corner, and if you hadn’t already come to realization that you’re hopelessly in love with her, it probably would’ve happened now).

“...it,” Amy finishes, and your eyes lock for the tiniest second before both of you look away. Instinctively, you loosen your hold of her and she starts stepping on your feet again and there it is, that awkwardness that seems to be on the fringes of every word you say to each other since _romantic stylez._

After a second, she blurts, “Things are okay with us, right?” And you nearly crack a joke, but there’s something very nearly vulnerable in her eyes so you don’t drop her gaze when you answer.

“Yeah, Amy. ‘Course.”

She’s rambling, now, words spilling out like she’s been bottling them up “Because, I mean, we’ve barely spoken in weeks and I understand if things are weird but if they are I really don’t want them to be because-”

“Things aren’t-”

“-I miss you,” she finishes with a heavy breath, “and I don’t want to lose you. As a friend.”

And your heart has been doing roller coaster loops for the duration of her monologue, but you can feel it slide into a familiar pit when she finishes. Part of you wants to sweep her off her feet and confess your love and ditch this party (seriously, who chose this music?), but the cowardly, most Jake-ish part of you is sort of relieved because if there’s one thing you’ve always been, it’s her friend.

You reach up, and tuck a stray hair behind her ear, not dropping her gaze. “You aren’t going to lose me,” you say, and it feels like a promise. “You got me.”

Her eyes seem to get bigger, and her lips part, and just when you’re thinking _screw it_ and are about to lean in-

“Jake! You two have been heart-eyes-emoji-ing on the floor for way too long. Get up in here and bring Gina some more booze.”

You and Amy spring apart at once, and, absurdly, you notice that the hair has come lose again.

“I’m going to go,” you say, gesturing toward Gina, who’s peering through the glass bottle like it’s a spyglass.

“Right, yeah.” Amy nods, “Totally.”

You stare at each other, and it feels like there’re a million things left to say but then Gina’s yelling again and Amy takes a step back.

“Thanks for the dance.”

“Thanks,” you echo, and you exchange a smile and you know without her saying anything that you aren’t going to lose her either.

And maybe things are weird between you and Amy right now, but maybe that’s okay. Maybe, you reflect as you prop Gina up and help her to the car, it’s the kind of weird that comes with change.

(You should probably give Amy back her cummerbund before you leave. Instead you decide to keep it so that you have an excuse to make fun of her for the French horn thing in front of the squad on Monday.)

(And some things, you realize, never change.)

 


End file.
